


your slightest look easily will unclose me

by amerande



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale POV, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Heavy pining, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi's Poetry, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Tense, Porn, Porn With Plot, Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Self-Loathing, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Smut, Spiritual Angst, Tenderness, Whump, talking about feelings like healthy adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21723823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amerande/pseuds/amerande
Summary: Aziraphale is torn between his duty to Heaven and his love of Crowley, and it has been eating away at him for thousands of years.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 361





	your slightest look easily will unclose me

**Author's Note:**

> CW on this for mentions of suicide—it's strictly in relation to holy water; neither of them actively contemplates it. 
> 
> My thanks, as ever, to [curlycrowley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlycrowley/pseuds/curlycrowley) for the beta work.

The water he washed in wasn’t holy. It was piped up from the ground and sprayed out of the ancient showerhead to run through his hair and down his face and hands and body until it fell down to the drain, where it flowed away none the purer for having touched an angel.

Long after he was clean—long after his body was clean—he turned off the spray and dried himself, wrapped a towel around his nakedness, and sat and brushed out his hair and did not think.

Still unthinking, he dressed, following decades-long habit with little variation.

Pants. Stocking garters. Stockings. Undershirt. Shirt, half-buttoned, with the collar down. Close the shirtsleeves with cufflinks. Trousers, and then tuck the shirt in. Shoes. Braces, buttoned into the trousers, and then fasten the trousers. Waistcoat, buttoned save for the bottom-most. Pocket watch. Cravat, tucked into the shirt after it’s tied, and then the shirt buttoned over it. Overcoat.

Hide away as much of this flesh as he could. Lock parts of himself away with each button closure, each lace and tie.

Not much of an armor of righteousness. Not much of righteousness, in him.

When he’d first taken the assignment to Earth, he’d worried—what if the humans sullied him? Now, thousands of years later, he knew that the fear had been baseless. How could he be tarnished by association with creatures who could be so much better than himself?

Cologne there, at the pulse of his wrist, at the soft skin on either side of his throat. Let it mask the scent of fear, of privation.

The rest was invisible until the moment he needed it. The smile, the way of looking just past the eyes of whomever he was speaking to. Long centuries of trained habit, of misdirection, of defense against being seen—not for what he looked like, but for what he really _was_.

What he was. A sham. A shell. A hollow, gutted thing.

A being of doubt.

A being made for one purpose—to glorify and obey his Creator—who nonetheless found himself constantly finding new reasons to exist, most of them to do with one who stood in opposition to that Creator.

On his way out of the dressing room, he picked up the thermos. He looked at it. A straightforward device, built to its function. Well—built to the function of holding a liquid. Certainly not _this_ liquid, not originally.

He traced a hand over the cup that doubled as its screw-top lid and hated the image it summoned of Crowley’s hands: Crowley’s hands grasping the lid, Crowley’s hands unscrewing it, Crowley’s hands pouring from the flask into the cup, Crowley’s hands _lifting the cup_ —enough.

Aziraphale didn’t bless it himself. How could he have? Crowley deserved the best of everything, and so he deserved the holiest water. Besides, if the worst _did_ come to pass, if by accident or design it should come to hurt (he carefully avoids the truth: _destroy_ ) Crowley… Well. It was bad enough to be the one giving the water to him, let alone having blessed it.

It was a risk he had accepted, accepted because he could not deny Crowley anything. He’d been giving into Crowley for nearly six thousand years by now, been slowly taking his own facade of goodness apart stone by stone, request by request. _We’d just cancel each other out. The Arrangement. Why don’t you stay in London? Holy water._

No, he could not deny Crowley anything, although he could— _must_ —resist. He had this one last vestige of his ideals to cling to: that he struggled against temptation, that he strove to do what was right.

Thermos in hand, like a millstone around his neck, he walked out of the shop and into the night. Crowley was near, he knew. He wandered until he found the Bentley, and then he waited.

He could have stood beside the Bentley, out in the open for Crowley to see him, except that he had to do this _now_ while he had the nerve. Coward that he was, he might lose another year or more to fretting and prevaricating if he was thrown off course now. So he waited under an awning until Crowley returned to his car and got inside, then translocated himself into the passenger’s seat.

Crowley stiffened as soon as he saw Aziraphale. Hard to blame him—Aziraphale had been a poor friend to him of late. He should do better, or he should not be any friend to him at all.

“What do you want?” Crowley’s words were clipped, and he leaned defensively away from Aziraphale.

“I—” Aziraphale stopped himself before he could say _nothing_. It would be a lie. He wanted _everything_ of Crowley, and he could not ask for it. “It’s about what you want,” he said instead.

He could see Crowley’s jaw clench, but the demon didn’t say anything.

“I know what you’re doing,” he continued. “I work in Soho, I hear things. This robbery… You’re going after holy water, aren’t you?”

“Let’s not do this again. You told me what you think a _hundred and five_ years ago.”

Aziraphale had lied a hundred and five years ago. He had panicked, as he had been panicking for six thousand years, and had said he didn’t need him. As it turned out, he had _also_ lied about not bringing Crowley a suicide pill.

“I’m not here to argue. I still think it’s—it’s too dangerous. But this robbery is _more_ dangerous, and I can’t have you risking yourself like that.”

It was all but certain that he’d have given in eventually regardless, as he gave in to everything where Crowley was concerned. But he might have lasted another century or so, had Crowley not set up his caper. What if his accomplices weren’t careful enough? If there was even a drop of holy water on the container as they handed it to him? If something should go wrong, and Crowley had to use a miracle in a _church_ , and he should be found out? No, it would not do.

He began to offer up the thermos, then hesitated.

“Promise me—” he swallowed against the awful lump in his throat “—promise me that you meant it. That it’s insurance, that it’s not for…” he couldn’t finish. He forced himself to look Crowley in the face.

The demon looked contemplative. He sat for a moment, one hand still frozen where it was stretched out to receive the gift. “That’s my plan,” he said at length.

 _That’s not the same_ , Aziraphale thought, _not the same at all_. But he supposed it wasn’t his place to demand more of Crowley. His existence—both of theirs, really—was already so circumscribed by those they answered to. He couldn’t add further imposition, no matter how much he might wish he could.

Aziraphale extended his arm the rest of the way, until the thermos was firmly in Crowley’s grasp.

“Be careful,” he said. An instruction; a plea.

Crowley looked down at the flask, his slender fingers cradling it with—was that reverence, or caution? Then he looked up at him, and Aziraphale wished he could see his eyes for any hint as to what the demon was thinking.

“You’re sure?”

“No,” Aziraphale admitted, “but I’m giving it to you anyway.”

“After everything you said?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, because if he kept answering, Crowley might keep giving him opportunities to change his mind and he couldn’t withstand that.

“Should I say thank you?”

 _Don’t thank me for being weak_ , Aziraphale thought. “Best not,” he said.

“Well can I—can I drop you anywhere?”

If he stayed near Crowley, he would crumble away to nothing. If he left, right this moment, then all of this could just be the Arrangement. If he stayed, it was a confession. He must not stay. He needed to retreat, to rebuild his walls until they were high enough to hide behind once again.

“No, thank you,” he said, and he wanted to say _maybe some other time_ , but he could not.

“Really, it’s no trouble.”

Crowley had no _idea_ how much trouble it was. But Aziraphale could not deny him, had perhaps built part of himself around being unable to deny him, and so he said “Perhaps someday…” and hoped that it would be enough to let him escape.

“Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale had just given in to one request, and already he was on to the next.

“You… you go too fast for me, Crowley,” he said, and he fled before he could be asked again.

* * *

By the time he was once again hidden in the safety of the bookshop, his breathing had returned to normal and the feeling that his very corporation might shake apart had passed. His overcoat was damp with rain, so he took it off and hung it to dry, but then he felt too exposed, so he pulled on his heavy shawl-collar cardigan and hugged it to himself, cold from more than the weather.

He made himself tea, and sat, and reflected.

It was done. For good or ill, he at least no longer had the decision in front of him.

He had grown accustomed to regret and self-recrimination—not comfortable with them, never that—and it felt a little like relief to have _them_ take up space in his thoughts, rather than fretting about the inevitable. Because he could deny Crowley nothing. He could delay, he could dither, he could argue himself into a frenzy of dizzying doubt and conflicting principles, and he certainly could hate himself after, but invariably he _would_ succumb. He might hold out a good long while, but he would eventually yield, and the delaying always felt a little worse; the aftershocks a little more like comfort.

Perhaps, if he’d thought Crowley _really_ wanted the holy water for what he’d initially feared, he could have withstood the request. But Crowley, as Aziraphale had come to rely upon, did not lie to him. And so he had given in—and immediately, Crowley had asked for something else. Time. _Anywhere you want to go_.

He’d have to hide a little while, maybe twenty or fifty years. He had to stay away because if Crowley continued to ask, he would eventually give in. They had all of eternity before them, which meant it was inevitable. Because he could not—would not—stay away from Crowley forever. If he did, what would be the _point_ of it? And because they had eternity, and because he was not willing to avoid Crowley for that eternity, and because it was in Crowley’s nature to _ask_ , it was unavoidable that his restraint would crumble and whatever the demon asked for, Aziraphale would give.

Not that he blamed Crowley. How could he? Crowley, who was so full up of care and life. Crowley, who was a braver and more honest being than Aziraphale on even his best day. Crowley, to whom Aziraphale knew he would finally, someday, give his devotion—the devotion he was meant to give to only One.

Which meant, of course, that all the rest of it was meaningless self-delusion. He knew that it would happen, in time, which meant that it _had_ happened, already, and he was only waiting for the illusion to fall, only delaying the necessity of facing the consequences, only pretending while he still could that he was not the wretch he knew himself to be.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

“We’re closed,” he called.

The knock came again.

“Angel, can I come in?”

Aziraphale nearly laughed, but there was no humor in him, just a sort of hollow fear to be caught so unarmored—but of course he was going to let him in, of course. He felt at his cravat to make sure it hadn’t gone askew. Scant protection. It took no more than a thought for the door to be unlocked and swing open, admitting Crowley.

Crowley stood in the doorway, sunglasses nowhere to be seen, his face unreadable and his hair out of sorts, as if he’d spent a lot of time running his fingers through it recently. He had, Aziraphale noticed in a detached sort of way, taken off his coat. His black turtleneck showed off the deep rise and fall of his chest—aside from that, he did not move, but stood still as stone and looked at Aziraphale.

“What is it, Crowley?” he asked, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.

Rather than answering, Crowley strode across the floor until he stood towering over where Aziraphale sat at his desk. He thrust the thermos out.

Aziraphale looked up, tired and confused beyond the ability to put his question to words.

“Take it back.”

“What?”

“Take the bloody water back,” Crowley enunciated clearly, “if it’s going to make you so miserable.”

“I’m n—what are you talking about?”

“You’ve been avoiding me for a hundred years. It’s because of this, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to answer that. No, it wasn’t—and yes, it was. “I’m not avoiding you,” he said. A lie, still, but a simpler one. Obvious enough to hardly count.

“Bollocks,” said Crowley. “A hundred and _five_ years.”

“The Blitz—” Aziraphale began, but Crowley waved one hand and cut him off.

“ _I_ found _you_. And then you wouldn’t even let me give you a lift home.”

“It isn’t you,” he protested weakly. (That one was not, technically, a lie. It was not Crowley he was avoiding—it was just everything to do with him. All the attendant complications of their association.)

Crowley’s voice was a little louder, his words more sharply bitten-off, as he asked: “Is it your head office? What’ve they done to you, I’ll—”

“Nobody’s done anything to me!”

The demon tapped one toe, which Aziraphale recognized as a sign of agitation. “Then what _is_ it?”

“Why does it have to be anything? Why are you convinced—”

“Because I _know_ you!”

Aziraphale took in a breath to respond, then realized he didn’t know what to say and let it out. He ran one hand down the buttons of his vest and tried not to shrink away from the force of Crowley’s statement. Crowley knew him, of course he did; at the same time, of course he didn’t know him at all, or else how could he be here? Crowley was so _sure_ , so settled in himself—surely he couldn’t know what a liar Aziraphale was.

When it became obvious he wasn’t going to respond, Crowley took a step back so Aziraphale no longer had to look directly up at him. The tension seemed to go out of him all at once. His shoulders sagged, and his face was gentle as he studied the angel for moments on end. “You’re upset,” he said softly. “I don’t know why. But I don’t want it to be because of me.”

He’d already said it wasn’t because of Crowley, hadn’t he? But Aziraphale hesitated to say it again; that would only open another opportunity for Crowley to ask about the real cause.

“What can I do?” Crowley asked.

“There’s nothing to _be_ done.”

“There must be,” Crowley said, and his eyes and his voice were so tender that it broke Aziraphale’s heart open.

He wished Crowley hadn’t come, not when he was so vulnerable, not when he was still recovering from earlier that night. If he had time to breathe between their meetings, he did a better job with the facade. Of pretending everything was fine and he wasn’t being torn between two fundamental and fundamentally incompatible loyalties.

“Why?” he asked in response, knowing he sounded bitter. “Because the world is fair and just?”

“Angel,” Crowley said—a request and a reassurance—but he didn’t continue.

“Crowley, sometimes things are just…the way they are.”

Time stretched out as Crowley regarded him carefully. “What is it?” he asked again.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“Of course it does.”

Aziraphale started and tried to hide the action by adjusting the sleeves of his cardigan. That was a dangerous statement. _Of course it does_ , he’d said. Of course what? Of course he knew it had something to do with him? Of course he knew it had _everything_ to do with him? “I beg your pardon?”

“If it concerns you, it concerns me.”

Oh _._ Oh _no_.

Once again, Aziraphale worked to master the impulse to hide, to shy away from the forthrightness and patience he saw in Crowley’s gaze. How could he say it so casually— _of course our lives are intertwined, of course you are mine_ —how could he wear the truth of it so comfortably, when it chafed and burned at Aziraphale’s skin?

Aziraphale’s looked from Crowley’s face to his own teacup, to the door of the shop, to the safety of the staircase up to his rooms, his gaze moving too quickly as his mind raced. Crowley was watching him so carefully, but so directly. The demon was entirely still.

“I…” Aziraphale stopped, swallowed, tried again. “What do you mean?”

Crowley shifted and stretched out a hand as if to touch him. Aziraphale couldn’t help it—he flinched. He flinched; Crowley froze, froze with his fingers half-outstretched, froze like Aziraphale had just run him through.

After an eternity in which Aziraphale couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only watch his achingly beautiful face like a drowning man watching the horizon, Crowley dropped his hand back to his side. “I should go,” he said. His voice was barely a whisper. It held no recrimination, no manipulation. Just an ocean of sorrow that Aziraphale knew only too well.

The demon turned and walked to the door.

Aziraphale was struck with a sudden fear—he’d gone too far, shown too much, and yet not enough. If Crowley left now, left thinking it was _him_ … Crowley deserved the best; while Aziraphale couldn’t be that, he could certainly be _better._ “No,” he begged. “No, don’t. Please…don’t leave.”

Crowley stopped. He turned cautiously back to face Aziraphale and waited.

Aziraphale fingered the hem of his cardigan, considering how to go about this. Then he offered: “Would you…care for a drink?”

Crowley’s expression was guarded. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Alright.”

As he went to the bar cabinet to retrieve glasses and rum—he needed something warming and strong—Aziraphale considered what he might say. Allowing Crowley to think that _he_ was the problem was not acceptable. Unfortunately, that left him precious little in the way of alternatives to the whole truth, or near enough to it to be just as damning. Telling him the actual problem, the whole of it, would uncover every secret, torn-up part of himself that Aziraphale loathed and feared. He was already half in tatters; at the end of this there might not be enough of him left to form a whole being, a being worthy of Crowley.

 _You ask so much of me, my dear_ , he thought as he poured their drinks. _And yet so much less than you deserve_.

They sat and they sipped, Aziraphale in his chair and Crowley in his usual position on the sofa. Aziraphale wished that Crowley were nearer, near enough that he could smell the woodsmoke and spice scent of him, the perfect accompaniment to the rum. The drink burned a little on his tongue, and he found himself _wanting_ to tell everything—so that Crowley might stoke the fire until it consumed him, or else smother it completely.

Crowley waited, as the ground may be said to wait for the rain.

Finally, Aziraphale began to speak. “I must apologize,” he began. “I haven’t been behaving well, and I am sorry to have given you cause to fret.” He looked away from Crowley’s eyes, down to the glass in his hand. “It _isn’t_ your fault. It isn’t the holy water, even—not _really_.”

He took a sip, felt the fire on his tongue.

“It’s…it’s about why you need it, I suppose.”

No response. He glanced over and saw Crowley only waiting, sitting still, intent.

“Giving it to you makes you even more unsafe.”

“How’s that?” The demon’s voice was subdued; it was a prompt, not a challenge.

“Because it’s—it’s _more_ ,” Aziraphale explained. “If you’re found out, it won’t be a matter of having been seen _fraternizing_ with an angel. Getting a weapon from one is so much worse.”

He took a deep breath and let himself sit with his discomfort before continuing. “And suppose you do use it as insurance, as you say. What then? Do you think they’ll just… give up? No.” He took another sip and then put his glass down on the end table. “I doubt they would.”

Now that he had begun talking, it was a little easier to keep going. To continue unbinding the bandages wrapped around the wound at the core of his being.

“And I hate putting you in danger.”

The next part—was he ready to say it? No, not yet; he took a moment, tested the taste of the words in his mouth, felt the way they prickled on his tongue, breathed through the way they choked in his throat. Crowley waited, patient.

“But I can’t…help myself.”

As if his words had loosed a coiled spring, Crowley leaned forward violently, then stopped himself just as suddenly. His knuckles were white where they gripped the glass, and his eyes were bright and intent.

“And,” Aziraphale said, hating the words even as he prepared to say them, “and this is _wrong_.”

He looked away from Crowley. “And…I don’t know what to do with that.”

There. All of himself unraveled and laid out for inspection. He heard Crowley take in a deep breath, but he didn’t dare look up.

“So…that’s… That’s it.”

He fidgeted with the bottom button on his waistcoat and waited, breath held.

An agonizing minute passed before Crowley spoke. “I see,” was all he said.

Aziraphale exhaled and nodded. “I don’t know what to do with that,” he repeated.

“Me neither,” Crowley said. Then, in a thoughtful tone, he continued. “Not sure I’d say _wrong_ , though. I mean, _wrong_ isn’t really a problem for me, professionally speaking, but even so.”

“What would you call it, then?”

From the periphery of his gaze he saw Crowley spread his hands in a vague gesture and adjust his seat on the sofa.

“Besides,” Crowley continued after a leaden moment, “if it was wrong, you’d think my side would be all for it.

 _You’d think I wouldn’t have to prepare myself for them to try to destroy me,_ Aziraphale thought he could have said.

“So maybe morality doesn’t really enter into it,” the demon concluded.

“It does for me.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Well it _is._ ”

“No, really,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale looked up as he leaned forward. “Think about it. How can _both_ our sides hate it, unless it _isn’t_ about morality? It’s more about allegiance, isn’t it? Hell’s big on disobedience, except disobedience to _them_. And Heaven’s not much different, when you get right down to it. All goodwill and grace, unless you question them, right? That’s not goodness, that’s control.”

Aziraphale could not keep his face from betraying him. He knew that everything—his agreement, his resentment, his fear—was writ plain across it. “I’m meant to obey,” he insisted.

“That’s just it though—are you meant to obey or to be good?”

“They’re the same!”

“Are they really?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale thought for a moment that perhaps he could hate his friend—but no, it was only _himself_. For wanting to believe that; for needing to hear Crowley say it before he _could_ believe it; for being too cowardly, still, to really believe it.

“Crowley, that’s not—” he lost the end of the sentence and tried again. “I can’t just…” he trailed off and then made a noise of disgust, turned his head this way and that—an animal trying to escape a trap.

“What is it?”

The question, so gentle, fell like brimstone on his ears.

Aziraphale hesitated, bereft and miserable. He’d thought himself exposed before, but now they came at last to the heart of it. Question by question, admission by admission, Crowley had hounded him into a corner with no way to hide from the light.

“If I don’t belong in Heaven,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “then…where?”

“Well, here,” Crowley said simply. “With me.”

It was only the damnable truth, but Crowley’s words hit Aziraphale like a blow. So easy, to hear it said like that. To lay down the pretense he’d been holding up for nearly the whole life of the Earth—that he was a creature of Heaven.

He couldn’t say anything—even if he’d had words, his throat was too constricted, his chest too hollow, to allow them.

Crowley moved toward him again, and this time Aziraphale didn’t flinch away. He was transfixed, staked out and splayed open, unable to even _want_ to get away. As Aziraphale watched, Crowley moved unhurriedly to the near end of the sofa, leaned forward, and stretched out one arm until his hand covered Aziraphale’s where it rested on the end table. It was the merest hint of pressure. Gentle. Barely there. All-consuming.

Crowley’s eyes were fixed on Aziraphale’s face, watching for a reaction.

Aziraphale knew he could reject him, at this moment. Could hurt him, maybe enough that he’d leave Aziraphale alone and stop _asking_. But he didn’t want to hurt Crowley—he wanted to _choose_ him. He was so tired of being conflicted and afraid. Of fighting against the tide of his own conviction, his own desire, that pulled him inexorably out to sea—to Crowley.

_So be it._

At the moment of his decision, he felt a compulsion akin to liberty, a sudden freeness that came along with his surrender—not to _Crowley_ , not to any external request or pressure, but to that which he had known in his heart of hearts for so, so long. Having at last given himself permission and swung into motion, he felt it would now be impossible to stop.

He turned his hand under Crowley’s until they touched palm-to-palm, his fingers curling around the side of Crowley’s hand. Crowley’s skin was so hot Aziraphale wondered that it did not scorch him; he would have welcomed it if it did.

Crowley’s lovely eyes went wide, his mouth opened softly, and he let out a six-thousand-year sigh that reverberated through Aziraphale’s whole being.

Each time, his acquiescence felt a little more like relief, he had thought. And it did, now. A little less terrifying, a little more right. Perfectly right.

Cautiously, Aziraphale brought up his other hand. He looked down as he ran one gentle fingertip over Crowley’s knuckles and down the long lines of his fingers.

“You’re right, of course,” he said after several long moments, now rubbing his palm over the back of Crowley’s hand. “I’ve known it for ages and ages, but I was too—too afraid to admit it.”

“How long?” Crowley asked, his voice silk-soft and anguished.

Aziraphale swallowed. “How long have I been here?”

“...London?”

“Earth.”

He looked up and Crowley was staring at him with something like horror, something more like grief, and the demon gripped his hand tight.

He had said all the worst of it, the most important parts of it, and Aziraphale found the band around his heart had loosened. Words no longer seared like coals in his mouth.

“I _want_ to be good,” he explained. “It matters to me. And I can’t think how loving you is _bad_. I just can’t ever…sort it all out.”

Crowley’s lips were moving as if repeating Aziraphale’s words, and the demon was watching him with renewed intensity—and Aziraphale realized what he’d said.

The word mattered; of course it did. But with everything else that had passed between them in the last six thousand years, with everything he’d said already that night, Aziraphale felt it to be a small admission.

“Love you, yes,” he said. “Of course I do.”

Crowley was actually _blushing_ , bright color painting his lovely sharp cheekbones and the tips of his ears. He broke eye contact with Aziraphale and studied their hands. He kept flexing his fingers so that he was squeezing Aziraphale’s hand and then not, and then he took both of Aziraphale’s hands in both of his own and held them tightly and looked back up at him.

“Aziraphale,” he said, his eyes boring into the angel’s, “I am—sorry, so sorry for my part in this. That you’ve been dealing with this at all. I hope you know that—whatever you need…” he gave an exasperated sigh and tried again, talking in fits as he found words. “I’m not a—a _fan_ —of Heaven. But whatever you need, whatever will help you—I don’t know if there’s some balance… Just—whatever it is that you need, I’m here for it.”

Aziraphale gave him a fragile smile. “I know it’s not you—never been you—making the demands, only ever asking. Offering, really.” He took a deep breath and continued. “It’s Heaven, as you said. So…I’ve known for quite some time what my choice was, only I was so afraid. I still am, but I’m—I’m also decided.”

As he spoke, Aziraphale listened to his own words with a sort of detached caution, waiting for them to pluck and tear at the wound at the very center of him, for them to send him spinning into a spiral of guilt—but they didn’t. The hurt was still there, but it was no longer the fresh and ugly thing it had always been. It felt, for the first time since it had torn open within him, like it would not destroy him. Like it might begin to heal.

He spoke again: “My heart’s a poor offering to make—it turns out it was already yours—but I offer it all the same.”

Crowley shut his eyes and squeezed Aziraphale’s hands. “Idiot,” he said with deep affection. “Don’t talk about it like that. It’s the best—the very best thing there is.”

A moment passed, and Crowley opened his eyes again.

“Also,” he said. “I do love you, you know. Should’ve started with that.”

“Oh, well. That is a relief.”

A sort of giggle escaped Crowley at his words. Aziraphale smiled, but could not quite laugh—not just yet.

They lapsed into a comforting silence. Aziraphale felt rather like all the words had been wrung from him, so he welcomed the opportunity to sit, to focus on the feel of Crowley’s skin touching his own where they held hands, and to drink. Each sip felt like a toast. He relished the sensation of having both feet planted firmly on the ground, no longer trying to straddle a widening chasm.

Crowley eventually broke the silence. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dear one?”

Crowley looked flatteringly flustered at the endearment, but continued gamely. “You said you’d give me your heart…”

“Yes.”

“What about—” Crowley’s eyes raked over his form “—the rest?”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to blush. “All of me.”

“Then would you please come over here?”

Aziraphale at once did as he was asked—he could not deny Crowley anything, and wouldn’t have wanted to if he could—and got up out of the chair and stepped over until he stood in front of Crowley.

Crowley patted the space beside him. “Sit,” he said.

Aziraphale sat, and Crowley took hold of his near hand, wrapping both of his own around it. Their knees were touching. Crowley _did_ smell of smoke and spice, and Aziraphale took in a deep breath to enjoy it.

Slowly—so slowly that Aziraphale had time to notice the movement beginning, to wonder where it might go, and to decide that yes, wherever it was leading was okay by him—Crowley leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale sagged into the contact like the string holding him upright had been cut, and Crowley caught him, let go of his hand and wrapped his arms around him. He tucked Aziraphale’s head under his chin and held him, ran his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Hey,” Crowley said gently after a long while in which Aziraphale floated in serene bliss.

“Hmm?”

“Today has been awful, and you’ve been so brave. What can I do?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, burrowing closer in the circle of his friend’s arms, “only hold me.”

“If we douse the lights and pull down the curtains so we aren’t constantly interrupted by would-be book-buyers, I’ll hold you for a decade.”

A huff of almost-laughter escaped Aziraphale.

“I assume you’re tedious and actually pay your property taxes,” Crowley continued. “How far into arrears d’you think they’d let you get before they came and bothered us?” He paused, and then his voice grew sly. “Although, you know… You’re strong enough, I wager I could just hold on very tight—” he squeezed his arms tight around Aziraphale to illustrate “—and keep hold of you while you posted a cheque. We could go for a record.”

At this, Aziraphale really did laugh, and he felt as if a tiny bit of himself had pieced itself back together. Crowley shifted his head and kissed Aziraphale’s temple, then his hairline.

Without examining the impulse, Aziraphale turned his head up—and Crowley kissed his lips.

It was not wholly unfamiliar (they _had_ been in Rome, after all) but context was everything and this was, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, an entirely new experience. It was…chaste. Romantic, yes—Aziraphale could feel all of Crowley’s wonderful love in it—but there was no urgency.

He kissed Crowley again, soft and slow, each touch of their lips an affirmation. His whole world was narrowed down to the feel of Crowley’s lips on his, the scent of his breath, and the touch of his hands on Aziraphale’s neck. Warmth like sunlight wrapped around him as surely as Crowley’s arms, and Aziraphale basked in it.

After less time than Aziraphale would have liked, Crowley pulled back slightly and held Aziraphale’s shoulders, looking at him almost sternly. “I don’t ever—not ever—want us to do something you don’t want to do, all right?”

Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley’s golden eyes were serious as he continued. “You won’t disappoint me, you _can’t_ disappoint me. Understand?”

Aziraphale hesitated, a little nonplussed. He’d been enjoying himself very much; he’d assumed it had been obvious.

“I mean it. If I’m—going too fast, or anything else, you tell me. Don’t be all noble and long-suffering about it.”

Hearing his own words from earlier that night—could it have really been so recent?—made Aziraphale wince as he understood the demon’s line of thinking.

“Even if you don’t believe it,” Crowley said, pushing the point, “can you trust me, and pretend that you do?”

He nodded. “It’s different now,” he said, and he regretted having planted that doubt in Crowley’s mind, “but yes. I’ll try.”

As Crowley kissed him again, Aziraphale thought there was not much he could possibly mind, if it felt even half so as nice as this—this gentleness, this reverence, this safety.

He reached a tentative hand up to cup the side of Crowley’s face, and Crowley pressed his cheek back against Aziraphale’s hand, then turned a little and kissed his fingertips. It was as if this was what his corporation had been shaped for: to hold Crowley, to receive his kisses, to feel the sharpness of his angles and the smoothness of his skin.

Giddy with sensation, Aziraphale moved his other hand up to hold the back of Crowley’s head. He ran his fingers through Crowley’s glorious hair, flexing them experimentally, and he was rewarded with a soft groan as Crowley leaned into his touch. The sound sparked over Aziraphale’s skin and he leaned forward, eager, to kiss Crowley again.

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough. Aziraphale opened his lips, hungry for every possible taste of Crowley—his skin, his tongue, his breath—and was overwhelmed by the fulfilment of that hunger. Crowley drew in a shuddering breath, his eyes bright and a smile playing about his perfect lips. Aziraphale tugged him back for another kiss, deeper, and tasted fire and starlight on his tongue. It wasn’t enough. He licked at Crowley’s bottom lip, took it in his mouth and bit it gently for the joy of feeling it, and rejoiced when Crowley gasped.

His fingers tightened again in Crowley’s hair and he bent his head to the demon’s neck, kissing along the lines of his throat, scraping his teeth over the delicate skin and tasting it. Crowley groaned again, and Aziraphale buried his face Crowley’s shoulder, overcome. If he didn’t have more of Crowley’s skin beneath his hands, he thought he would surely perish.

He took in a steadying breath. “I’d like to undress you, I think,” he said in a small voice. He felt shy—but then one of Crowley’s hands turned his head up to face him, and the love in his gaze banished all his bashfulness.

“Yes,” the demon said, and he kissed him one last time before Aziraphale stood and pulled him up to join him.

Each step to the back of the shop, up the stairs, and down the short hallway to his bedroom felt like walking further into a dream. His hand was holding Crowley’s, their fingers interlaced, and twice along the way Crowley brought it up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles or the back of his hand, and it was all Aziraphale could do to keep walking, to not stay trapped in each moment.

When they entered the bedroom, Crowley paused and looked at the bed, heaped with pillows and rumpled blankets.

“I thought you didn’t sleep,” he said, almost as an accusation.

“But I _do_ read,” Aziraphale said, and then he pulled him close and danced his hands down Crowley’s sides, down until they reached the hem of his sweater. Feeling very daring, he lifted it just enough to slide one hand skin-to-skin along Crowley’s waist, and then at once they were both working together to get rid of the sweater and the shirt underneath it. The time they could not kiss while Crowley was finally pulling the clothing off over his head was insufferable.

Aziraphale was trembling as he placed his hands on Crowley’s bare chest, trembling as he traced them around to the demon’s sides, then back, trembling as he embraced him and kissed the side of his neck and the top of his shoulder. He let his greed guide him down Crowley’s chest, tasting and touching everywhere he could—the sharp dip of his collarbone, the soft line leading down his belly, the very tip of one of his perfect hips—until he was kneeling before him, his heart pounding fast and his whole body singing with repletion and need in equal measure.

He guided one of Crowley’s hands to his own shoulder, braced it there, and then began to undo the laces of his snakeskin boots. Crowley held onto him for support as Aziraphale removed first one boot, then the other. That accomplished, Aziraphale turned his attention to the demon’s belt, and he thrilled at the way Crowley’s breathing grew harsher as he carefully undid the buckle, then the button and zipper of his trousers, and pulled. A moment and some careful maneuvering later and Crowley was standing before him in the altogether, every fantastic plane and curve of his body on display, and Aziraphale felt himself nearly daunted at the mere reality of it all.

He removed his own shoes and stood and guided Crowley onto the bed and set himself to the serious, delightful business of memorizing the feel of Crowley’s body under his hands, and then Crowley was kissing him and clutching at him and moving against him and Aziraphale was lost in a wonderful haze of sense and sensation.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said between hard, demanding kisses, “you’re overdressed.”

“To the contrary, my dear, I am more naked than I’ve ever been,” Aziraphale said with a light heart as he dragged one hand heavily over the top of Crowley’s thigh and down until he reached the place where Crowley’s legs were pressed against each other. They parted at his touch, and Aziraphale traced airy circles over the skin there, feeling it prickle beneath his touch. He moved until he was able to lick at the protrusion of Crowley’s hip bones, to trace the bright line of hair leading down from his navel towards his cock. This, too, he tasted, and found it _very_ good. Better still was the way Crowley writhed beneath him and raised his hips as if to give more of himself to Aziraphale. At last, Aziraphale was free to take and _take_ , and to give without cease, and he exulted in it.

He made a leisurely exploration of Crowley’s cock, sucking and licking and placing tender, light kisses down its length; he felt the shape of it with his hand, and could not help but give a little hum of delight before taking him wholly in his mouth once again. The feeling of being filled up with Crowley, of his whole scope of experience being wrapped up in the heady, visceral sensations of pleasing his love, was everything.

Crowley’s hands scrabbled at the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat, and Aziraphale was forced to conclude that perhaps he was right about his state of dress. Anything that separated them, anything that kept him from _feeling_ every part of Crowley with every part of himself, was wrong.

He sat up and began by removing his cardigan, then fumbled at his cravat until Crowley held out a hand to still him.

“Allow me?” Crowley asked, his eyes bright and his look greedy.

“Please.”

For all his evident desire, Crowley’s was careful as he undid each button of Aziraphale’s vest and shirt and unfastened his trousers. Aziraphale dealt with unbuttoning the front straps of his braces, and then together they removed his shirt, vest, and undershirt.

Crowley paused when he’d gotten Aziraphale’s trousers and pants down to his calves. “You lovely, antiquated _bastard,_ ” he said, looking at the stocking garters.

Aziraphale blushed—but it had more to do with the fondness in Crowley’s voice than with how exposed he felt. In fact, he felt not at all shy to be so on display for Crowley. In _fact_ , he rather loved it.

He loved more the amount of contact it afforded him when at last he too was entirely naked and Crowley laid alongside him, half on top of him. Every part of Crowley was within his reach, and in short order their legs were entangled, one of Aziraphale’s arms was wrapped under Crowley to hold his back, Crowley was cradling Aziraphale’s face with both hands and stealing his breath in a flurry of frantic, open kisses.

Then Crowley began moving, trailing little bites and broad laps of his tongue down Aziraphale’s neck and chest and it was as if a river of fire, of molten gold, was running down his body wherever Crowley’s mouth went. Every touch of the demon’s hands, every press of his lips, rang through Aziraphale’s body. He began to pant and moan as one of Crowley’s clever hands toyed with one of his nipples and Crowley’s perfect lips traced whisper-light kisses over the soft curve of Aziraphale’s belly.

“Magnificent,” he heard Crowley say, his voice half-muffled because his mouth was pressed into the angel’s skin. “I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”

Crowley continued downward, now gently scraping his fingernails down the delicate skin of Aziraphale’s sides, from below his arms down to his hips. Aziraphale shivered.

“So soft, so exquisitely shaped,” Crowley said between kisses that followed the line under Aziraphale’s hips, leading from the side of his waist down towards his cock.

“Glorious,” Crowley breathed, nuzzling at Aziraphale’s cock with his nose and then turning his face so that it rubbed against his cheek. Then he licked the very tip of it and Aziraphale bit his lip in an effort not to—oh, to burst into a thousand sparks, to cry out his love in many voices, to beg Crowley to do this always. Crowley sucked his cock and ran his cunning tongue along the so-sensitive underside and cupped his balls and Aziraphale had never felt so holy, so blessed in all his existence.

He spoke, or he meant to speak, but all that came out were soft noises and little cries of pleasure. Crowley looked up and grinned wickedly at him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said with tremendous effort.

“Yes, love?” Crowley asked, and between the _word_ and the way Crowley _instantly_ returned to sucking his cock, it was all Aziraphale could do to continue his thought.

“I’ve—I’ve never—” he trailed off, too delirious with enjoyment to be coherent.

“Me neither,” Crowley said. He kept one hand on Aziraphale’s cock, caressing it, but moved back up and kissed Aziraphale so that he could taste himself. “Only ever yours.”

“Always…always yours,” Aziraphale agreed, and he gasped as Crowley moved his hips such that his cock rubbed up against Aziraphale’s thigh. For a long, glorious moment, Crowley rocked them both and kissed Aziraphale hungrily, and then Aziraphale felt a rising need.

“Please,” he began, and he reached out until he could grab Crowley’s cock, could feel the beautiful hardness of it, could caress it and hope to return even some part of the pleasure the demon was giving him.

“Please what,” prompted Crowley, thrusting up into Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale groaned with the frustration of having to talk through all this stimulation.

“I’m gonna need a little more direction than that, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and his movements slowed as if he understood the angel’s dilemma.

“Fuck me,” Aziraphale begged.

“Oh,” Crowley said, his voice deep and dripping with promise, “with pleasure.”

Aziraphale mourned the absence of his kisses, but then Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s legs up over his own shoulders and had his head between them, licking and nuzzling the skin right below Aziraphale’s balls, and a crackle of livewire pleasure nearly made him weep. Then Crowley’s finger, miracle-slick, was pushing gently into Aziraphale and he strained with the effort to not push himself down against it.

When Aziraphale had adjusted to the sensation, Crowley came back up to kiss him. His hands guided Aziraphale’s legs around his waist, and he leaned down til their foreheads were pressed together.

“May I?” Crowley asked, his voice barely a whisper of hot breath in Aziraphale’s ear.

“Please. Oh, please,” Aziraphale said.

And then Crowley was in him, all in one slow motion, and Crowley was pouring all of his love into a kiss that resounded to the very center of Aziraphale’s being. They moved together, and Aziraphale rocked his hips into each tender thrust and returned Crowley’s kisses with every ounce of passion and honesty he possessed.

All thought was driven from Aziraphale’s mind; he was a being only of touch and smell and sound and taste; his only world was the rhythm that Crowley set for them; he was a new creation.

With a final kiss, Crowley sat back a little, bracing himself above Aziraphale with one hand and reaching the other down between them until he held Aziraphale’s cock. He grasped and stroked in time with his own thrusts. His eyes were locked on Aziraphale’s face, his mouth half-open and smiling, and Aziraphale thrilled to be so regarded.

There was a golden joy in his chest, a brightness that threatened to split him apart, an exaltation that could not possibly leave him the same from that moment on. This light, this love, covered and stained him and seeped in through his skin everywhere that Crowley touched him.

Aziraphale came, clutching at Crowley and pulling him near, tears in his eyes and his heart ringing with satisfaction. Then Crowley was whispering his name over and over and coming, too, and then they lay still and held each other and marveled.

“Perfect,” Crowley said in his ear—more of a breath than even a whisper. “You’re perfect.” He kissed Aziraphale’s ear and sucked on the lobe so that Aziraphale shivered and squeezed the demon tighter. “You feel so good.”

Aziraphale could not speak; he could only stretch up and kiss at every part of Crowley’s face that he could reach, could only rub his own cheek against Crowley’s. He ran his hands lightly down Crowley’s back and huffed out a happy chuckle when Crowley tensed and hissed with pleasure.

“So good,” Crowley repeated.

Crowley rearranged himself so that he was draped over Aziraphale, pressing down on him and holding him as both of them breathed and touched and settled.

They stayed like that long after Aziraphale’s heart stopped pounding, touching and kissing and still learning the feeling of being so close.

Much later, he spoke. “I should have liked,” he said softly, “for this to be a happier occasion.”

“We don’t always have to be happy,” Crowley said in response. He kissed Aziraphale’s temple. “But also, it is. Happiest I’ve ever been.”

“I’m still afraid,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Me too. But we’re in it together.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said. “For everything.”

Aziraphale struggled for an appropriate response to that, but none was forthcoming, so he settled for a tight hug. He held Crowley like that until the demon drifted off to sleep, and then long after.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments below. If you'd prefer a more 1:1 conversation, you can find me on tumblr as [thelasthomelyurl](https://thelasthomelyurl.tumblr.com/).
> 
> A few works I'd like to acknowledge:
> 
> The title for this comes from _somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond_ by ee cummings.  
> 
> 
> your slightest look easily will unclose me  
> though i have closed myself as fingers,  
> you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens  
> (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
> 
> This isn't directly touched on in this piece, but Mary Oliver's _Wild Geese_ always always makes me think of Aziraphale and it breaks my heart.  
> 
> 
> You do not have to be good.  
> You do not have to walk on your knees  
> for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.  
> You only have to let the soft animal of your body  
> love what it loves.
> 
> The clothing/unclothing imagery was in part inspired by Rumi's _The Purpose of Emotion_ : "A certain Sufi tore his robe in grief, and the tearing brought such relief he gave the robe the name faraji, which means ripped open or happiness, or one who brings the joy of being opened."
> 
> I also feel it incumbent upon me to acknowledge amdg2846's [Samson: A Duet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20252062/chapters/47999731). This work was not inspired by that one, but it was certainly informed by it—it was one of (or perhaps _the_ ) first Really Angsty Aziraphale fics I read, and it instantly permeated my whole view of the pairing. I strongly recommend you read that fic, it's delightful and transformative. The dripping imagery in the first chapter is especially captivating.
> 
> Finally, if you're curious, the rum they're drinking is Rhum Clement Tres Vieux 1952.
> 
> Again, my thanks to you for reading. Let's talk in the comments!  
> 


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